"We can’t deceive her," he went on--"It’s bad enough to have deceived him. And now--well, it’s such a different matter now. She must understand. Don’t you think she will?" With a gentle pressure of his hand, she agreed. They both pictured her glad of the knowledge, because in the hearts of them both, they were so glad to be able to tell. For this is how the honest deceive themselves, by super-imposing upon another, that state of mind which is their own. With all belief, they thought the little old white-haired lady must be glad when she heard; with all innocence and ignorance of human nature, they conceived of her gratitude that such an ending had been brought about. "When shall we tell her?" asked Jill. "Oh--not at once. In a day or so. The day you go, perhaps." "And you think she’ll forgive me?" He smiled at her tenderly for her question. "Do you think you know anything about the little old white-haired lady when you ask that? I’ll just give you an example. She abominates drunkenness--loathes it--in theory has no pity for it, finds no excuse. Well, they had a gardener once, when they were better off. There’s not a school for the trade in Venice, as you can imagine. Tito knew absolutely nothing. He was worthless. He was as likely as not to pull up the best plant in the garden and think it was a weed. But there he was. Well, one day Claudina reported he was drunk. Drunk! Tito drunk! In their garden! Oh, but it was horrible--it was disgusting! She could scarcely believe that it was true. But Claudina’s word had to be taken and Tito must go. She could not even bear to think he was still about the place. "Tito--I have heard so and so--is it true?" she said. Well--Tito talked about not feeling well and things disagreeing with him. At last he admitted it. "Then you must go," said she--"I give you a week’s wages." But a piteous look came into Tito’s face and he bent his head and he begged--’Oh, don’t send me away, _egregia signora_!’ and that cry of his went so much to her heart, that she almost took his head on her shoulder in her pity for him. And you say--will she forgive you? Why, her capacity for forgiveness is infinite! I often think, when they talk of the sins that God cannot pardon, I often think of her." She looked up and smiled. "Do you always tell a little story when you want to explain something?" she asked. "Always," said he--"to little children." She shut her eyes to feel the caress in the words. "Well, then," she said, opening them again--"we tell her the day after to-morrow." "That is the day you go?" "Yes--I must go then. And may I say one thing?" "May you? You may say everything but one." "What is that?" "That I have been dreaming all this to-night." "No, you haven’t been dreaming. It was all real." "Then--what do you want to say?" "That the little old white-haired lady is not to live alone. I’m going to live with her as much of the year as you’ll let me--all of it if you will."